I Won't Always Love You the Best
by Etheromaniac
Summary: She was everything light in this world and she chose your shadow to purify. At the ripe age of ten you knew she was too good for you, but you were selfish and clung to her brightness just as much as she was willing to shine it upon you. And now, once again, you're proving yourself right.


_I'll always love you the most._

You meant those words from the bottom of your heart; no, you meant those words from the depths of your soul, from the day your muddy eyes met crystal waters. You loved her even when you didn't know what love was, not truly at least. You were always more than just her friend, more than just her protector, her guide, or the unfortunate darkness that consumed her. You would do anything for her, in fact you did. One year of figuring out your feelings despite knowing what said feelings felt like, and another, well half, of actually being together. _Girlfriends_.

And you threw it all away because of some stupid "energy exchange."

And you were throwing it all away because of some stupid energy exchange.

You never wanted to hurt her. After the whole Bartie barnacle (read: debacle), Brittany's words not yours, you swore to never hurt her again, intentionally or not. You pledged the rest of your life to making her the happiest girl in the world, even if she was already naturally the happiest. But dammit, you made her happier, you were sure of it until you went away to college and she was doomed to repeat her senior year.

You tried so fucking hard to keep your promises, and sometimes you wished that she could understand that life was different outside of high school. It was one thing to have classes together, go to cheerios practice together, sing and dance in glee club together, and then turn around and practically live together just to repeat the blissful cycle. Now there was lectures, and notes, and study, study, study, on top of usually late night cheerleading practice, football games that dwarfed the McKinley Titans. You were lucky enough to get six hours of sleep, a good shower to soothe muscles and the soul, and a decent meal all while maintaining your grades because Brittany got you a full-ride scholarship as a cheerleader. Why couldn't she just understand that yes, you would have to miss some of your Skype dates, and that yes, you wouldn't be able to traverse home every weekend. _Why couldn't she fucking understand?_

No.

This isn't her fault; you shouldn't resent her. You won't.

You're in the wrong.

You chalked the break-up to the distance, both of you weren't happy but neither of you resorted to cheating, and that fucking stupid energy exchange. Fuck.

Part of you gained pleasure in knowing you could attract the same sex. Living in Lima didn't give you many opportunities to test your latent homosexuality, not that you were looking at the time. You were more than content with Brittany; she was always going to be your girlfriend, or so you thought. But you couldn't deny that catching another female's eye sent a certain shock down your spine that only Brittany possessed. You smiled back partially out of courtesy, not that it was ever a strong manner of yours, yet something you didn't know at the time lay hidden underneath. Just admit it, _you were curious_.

All you've ever known was Brittany. You literally ate and breathed her entire existence, spending years mapping her body like a constellation map and learning her quirks, flaws, strengths, and everything in between to the point that it was second nature to recall how many freckles dusted her high cheekbones. There's eighty-four, by the way; you definitely did not count them one morning, basking in the glow of after-sex pre-dating.

Was it so bad that you secretly desired to try a piece of pie after years of cake? Look and don't touch, right? Except you're no longer looking and you're far beyond touching. Brown sugar and nutmeg certainly has nothing on a cup of sugar and rainbow sprinkles, but you can't take it back now. Besides, rumor has it that Brittany and a certain trouty mouth have been getting close lately.

You hadn't meant to take your frustrations over that piece of news out on Bridgette; the red marks along her back as you lay beside her speak volumes. You still can't believe you found yourself bedding a girl whose name is similar to Brittany's; the fact that you recognized that the first morning after says a lot about your guilt factor. Thankfully her hair is red, she has a mole rather than freckles, and her eyes are the farthest thing from blue that you have to work hard to imagine another face even on a good night.

_I'll always love you the most._

Who are you kidding? If actions speak louder than words than this was a blade waiting to commit hara-kiri. Every time you fucked Bridgette, because that's all this was, the blade got closer to your stomach. By the second week of your nocturnal meetings the cool metal felt like burning iron against your belly, like a hot brand forever singeing the skin. By the third week the sharp tip was already piercing your gut, sinking deeper and deeper every day you continued to have interaction with your ex while at night you became a different person. The fourth week had you spilling your blood and intestines everywhere, bleeding you as dry as your constant lies that you weren't seeing anyone, because technically you weren't.

You didn't lie at the Grease musical yet that didn't stop you from seeking out Bridgette not even two days later upon returning to the Louisville campus. You think Brittany knows you're lying…you know she knows you're lying, and perhaps that's why all the talk on Facebook of her hooking up with Sam bothers you more than anything. You know you're in the wrong, you know you should tell her, but you feel hurt that she hasn't mentioned anything about Sam in your daily texts and so you feel like you're the one being lied to.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

_Ooooh, I wanna dance with somebody._

_I wanna feel the heat with somebody._

_Yeeeeah, I wanna dance with somebody._

_With somebody who loves me._

You constantly remind yourself to change that fucking ringtone. It no longer applies to you, or so you keep telling yourself as punishment. However, it seems you can't physically bring yourself to edit her contact and find something more appropriate. Half the songs you would associate with her were on the playlist she made you Valentine's Day last year, the same playlist your roommate doesn't understand why you listen to it after a night of drinking. She calls you a fucking weirdo every time you start sobbing over Disco Duck, yet she turns around and starts wailing too because she's just that kind of person, not that kind of drunk.

_Ooooh, I wanna dance with somebody._

_I wanna feel the heat with somebody._

_Yeeeeah, I wanna dance with somebody._

_With somebody who loves me._

You really need to change that ringtone. The memories associated with it are just too painful to hear though fortunately you don't have to hear it often. Brittany doesn't call nearly as much anymore, another reason why you're convinced she's the one hiding something, not you.

_Ooooh_, _I wanna dance with somebody._

_I wanna feel the heat with somebody-_

"Hello?"

You stiffen at the sleep-filled greeting beside you. You hadn't noticed that her soft snores had stopped after the second ring and you berate yourself for not answering the phone after the first. There was no way you could play Bridgette off as your roommate. For one, Brittany was smarter than that. Two, she knew the sound of your roommate's voice from your cam sessions. And three, she knew when you were lying, read the above paragraphs.

Just like you knew her inside and out, she knew you inside, outside, upside down, sideways, and any other directions. She has traveled the seven circles of hell that is your unnecessary layers; she has braved your cool summers and your even colder winters. She was everything light in this world and she chose your shadow to purify. At the ripe age of ten you knew she was too good for you, but you were selfish and clung to her brightness just as much as she was willing to shine it upon you. And now, once again, you're proving yourself right.

"Yeah, she's right beside me if you want to talk to her."

This was it. This was the beginning of an end. You knew it, she knew, and you were even positive that Bridgette knew it. Like Brittany had said that dreadful afternoon in the choir room, "_Why does it feel like a break-up?_"

After tonight, you and her would officially be breaking up.

"Oh okay. I'll, uh, tell her that I guess. Bye-"

You can hear the resounding click from your side of the bed, or so you thought you were exaggerating until you hear Bridgette mumble rude as she turns to face your back. You don't want to face her since facing her means accepting what's to come, and accepting what's to come means that this is really happening and you only have yourself to blame. You know this, you fucking know this, but that doesn't stop you from choking back a sob or the lump in your throat or the gradual prickling of tears. It doesn't stop time, it doesn't give you a sense of reassurance, and it most certainly doesn't feel like a nightmare. You had one once and Brittany was the one spooning you from behind, not Bridgette.

"A girl named Brittany called-"

You know.

"She said she wants you to come back to Lima-"

You know.

"Something about an emergency but it's not that important-"

You know.

"She even said for you to take your time-"

You fucking know – goddammit Brittany.

"Preferably this weekend-"

You're such a fucking idiot.

"And something about a Lord Tub?"

Jesus…why?

You ignore Bridgette at that point and stumble out of bed. Something wet is already sliding down your cheeks and as you lick chapped lips there's a faint trace of salt. You can't let her see you crying like this, not over something that should have been an innocent phone call. You don't need her asking questions, especially not now. In the time it takes for you to gather your clothes and make yourself somewhat presentable for a decent walk of shame, though honestly you don't care as is noticeable by your not so presentable disheveled appearance, you have come to a decision. You're done with Bridgette, you're done with Louisville, and you're fucking done with Kentucky. You made a promise once to do your best for Brittany, even if college was not your ideal future, but at this rate that promise is null and void.

"Where are you going?"

You don't bother looking at hurt expression that's probably etched all over Bridgette's face. You know it's the least you could do given what you're about to say, but you just can't. One painful experience this week is all you can stand, and unfortunately for Bridgette, Brittany still takes priority in all departments, even if it's something as somber as this.

"I'm leaving."

"Oh…okay. See you Monday?"

You don't respond; you can't respond. If you even dared to open your mouth again you're certain you're going to break down or worse and you don't have time for that. You have too much ground to cover, too much shit to pack, and too many feelings rushing through your being that you think you might pass out at any moment.

Instead, you give a vague shake of the head that Bridgette will convince herself means yes when actuality it's a definite no. You actually feel bad because if things were different you probably would not have minded pursuing a relationship with the girl. She was funny, and sure, she had a weird obsession with Virginia Woolf and was a bit of an extreme feminist, but she wasn't too bad to hang out with. The sex wasn't bad as a bonus; she just wasn't the one you wanted to be with indefinitely.

"Bye Santana."

You catch the quiver in her voice, the same quiver that's been present for a few days now. It was the same quiver you experienced when telling Brittany for the first time that you were completely and utterly in love with her. No, you can't think about either issue. Your mind is set and this is final, and so you walk out the door without another word.

The moment you cross the threshold and the door gently clicks shut behind you, you find yourself tuned in to your thoughts more than before. If Bridgette's room was golden silence, your mind was filled with rusty racket. You played over every moment you shared with Brittany from ten until now; every conversation, every touch, every stare and smile. It was driving you mad as you briskly walked back to your dorm on the other side of the building. The girl you thought you would share the rest of your life with, as friends or more, could quite possibly no longer be part of it. That was truly frightening more than anything in the world.

At long last a sob wrenched itself free from the prison of your throat. You are about five paces away from your door when it breaches through your teeth and echoes off the walls. For a fraction of a second you fear someone hearing you, but somewhere between the second and third heart-wrenching sob you stop caring. You weren't going to see any of these people after tonight, so why did it matter?

You couldn't be any more thankful that your roommate wasn't sleeping let alone in the room in the first place. You distinctly remembered the first time you disturbed her sleep and grew to admire and respect her after the way she nearly tore you a new one. No one else put up with your shit directly a side from Quinn, but even she had nothing on her roommate. Regardless, upon seeing two empty beds gave reason to just completely let go, and so you did.

You began packing your suitcases and trunks with blurry eyes that never seemed to stay clear no matter how many times you wiped your eyes. At one point, your nose began to drip on the clothes you were throwing into the large suitcase, and while you certainly didn't care in that moment, you eventually turned around and grabbed the tissue box to routinely wipe your nose. In a matter of twenty minutes, a new record you cheered subconsciously somewhere, you had mostly everything packed and whatever you didn't, you honestly just did not give two flying fucks about. Let Louisville keep it as a souvenir that the once great Santana fucking Lopez stomped upon their campus.

It took a few trips but eventually you managed to squeeze everything into your black luxury SUV. Before you know it, you're already exiting the dorm parking lot and making your way towards I-75 north. You don't bother with turning on the radio or plugging in your iPod; you need the silence, you crave it. You finally got your mind to quiet down and you don't want to ruin it with every song that could possibly remind you of what you had and threw away.

You had at a young age what many could only hope of even tasting, and you dumped it in the wastebasket.

_I'll always love you the most._

You forgot to mention that you wouldn't always love her the best.

* * *

**I had a bit of spare time and in that spare time...let's just say this story is a little personal. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes; I typed this up while I was still in a flurry of emotions in hopes to capture that raw feeling. Maybe it will work in my favor, maybe it won't. Also, a bit of help in regards to categorizing this story. There will be Bram and Pezberry, but I haven't decided if this will end in Brittana or Pezberry. As such, what should I make the character pairing? I'll post it as Brittany and Santana for now, but it's likely to change.**

**Um...enjoy, I suppose.**


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